Fallen Grace

by Mary Hooper

  Lily stared at the house: four storeys up and one down. When they’d been with Mama she could remember that they’d had a whole house to themselves, but that had just been two rooms down and two up. This house looked as if it might contain twenty rooms – or even more if she knew what number came next.

  ‘It’s a very big house. Who else lives here?’ she asked Rose.

  ‘Who else? No one, just Mr and Mrs Unwin and Miss Charlotte. Oh, and the servants, of course. But they hardly count,’ she added.

  ‘All these floors and windows, just for them?’ Lily stood on tiptoe to see in the front parlour and took away a jumbled impression of plump sofas and chairs, lavish fabrics, patterned wallpaper and occasional tables on which objets d’art fought for space.

  ‘Yes, just for them. Now, round the back quickly!’ Rose said, for Lily had been about to go up the front steps. ‘Servants don’t use this entrance. Not ever.’

  Lily had peered into the Unwins’ front parlour, not knowing that she’d seen a room at the very pinnacle of fashion: walls newly papered with Mr William Morris’s wallpaper, cluttered with armchairs, tables, stuffed birds in glass boxes and sideboards on which stood china elephants, cupids, depictions of Victoria and Albert, amusing items from abroad and glazed jardinières containing copious amounts of fernery. All rooms above stairs were furnished to this height of opulence, but as soon as one opened the door which led downwards, different standards prevailed, for the domestic offices were in a dark, stone-flagged space and the cooking appliances, sinks and fireplaces were horribly work intensive. There was no hot water, the sinks were of lead and, in order to be able to see what you were doing, candles had to be kept burning on the brightest of days. The vast kitchen range contained two coal grates, a bread and a pastry oven and several rings for pans, but the fires needed constant care: raddling, coaxing and feeding from before dawn to dusk and beyond if they were not to go out in the middle of preparations for a meal.

  It was in the kitchen that Rose now introduced Lily to the other domestic staff: to Mrs Beaman the cook-housekeeper, Blossom and Lizzie the parlourmaids, and Ella the kitchen-maid.

  The servants, as one, reacted to the newcomer with dismay and some amusement, gasping at her grimy feet, sniffing conspicuously when she wriggled out of her shawl and visibly shuddering when they saw the flea bites (gained after the overnight stay in the warehouse) on her arms. The only person a little pleased about Lily’s arrival was Ella, who realised that she was no longer going to be the lowliest member of the household.

  Rose, who was actually quite warm-hearted, became embarrassed at how Lily was being regarded by the others and told the girl to go outside and take a little walk around the garden.

  ‘The state of her!’ said Blossom the moment the back door closed.

  ‘Who knows what germs she might be harbouring – why, she doesn’t look as if she’s ever been on the receiving end of a bar of soap!’ said Lizzie.

  Mrs Beaman heaved her bosom. ‘Master wants to take her on as a lady’s maid?’ she asked no one in particular. ‘Master must have gone mad.’

  ‘Mistress did look quite stunned when she told me to bring her over,’ Rose volunteered.

  ‘Anyway, apart from what she looks like, does she know what a servant’s duties are?’ Lizzie went on, with a superior smile. ‘Has she been in service before? Can she iron a pleated petticoat? Can she dress hair?’

  ‘Can she, my arse!’ said Mrs Beaman, and the others dissolved into shocked giggles. ‘Did he give instructions as to her dress?’ she asked. She looked down at herself. She and the rest of the house servants were wearing white linen pinafores over deep-blue cotton dresses. ‘Is she to wear our livery? She hasn’t even got any shoes!’

  ‘Where did she come from?’ Blossom demanded.

  Rose shrugged. ‘All I know is that she has a sister who’s been taken on by the Unwins as a mute. I think they had to take both girls, or the first one wouldn’t have come. Mr Unwin will probably tell you more tonight,’ she added, for the family came back to their Kensington home in the evenings.

  ‘The Unwins – taking on charity cases? There’s a first!’ said Mrs Beaman, as she and the others stood in a line at the back window, shaking their heads and watching as Lily walked around the garden, smelling flowers, squeezing pungent herbs between her fingers and admiring the abundance of vegetables growing in the walled garden.

  It was sad that she and Grace had to live separately, she was thinking, but she’d been promised that it wouldn’t be for ever. And just look at all the things to eat here: the shiny, red tomatoes, the marrows and onions and fat, white cauliflowers – not to mention the chickens pecking in the gravel. She was willing to bet that no one ever went hungry here! Used to taking food where she could get it, she reached up, picked several ripe blackberries and popped them into her mouth. When Mrs Beaman rapped hard on the window in order to admonish her, she merely looked back, waved and smiled.

  ‘The cheek of it! That one will never make a lady’s maid,’ said Mrs Beaman.

  ‘Or any sort of a maid!’ said Blossom.

  ‘Certainly not until she’s had a bath,’ said Lizzie, sniffing the air where Lily had left a faint, foul smell of boiled animal bones behind her.

  Rose looked at Mrs Beaman, knowing that the very latest in all-enveloping hot-water showers had recently been installed in the house. ‘Do you think perhaps –’

  ‘No, she certainly could not use the bathroom,’ snapped Mrs Beaman. ‘The very idea!’

  x

  Rose bade her goodbyes and walked back across the park to the Unwin Undertaking Establishment while the debate about the new servant continued. After Blossom had declared it an impossibility to be in the room with anyone smelling as bad as Lily did, Mrs Beaman decided that she should, under the care of Ella, be given a penny and taken to the public baths in Hammersmith to be scrubbed and disinfected to the standard expected of a maidservant in a gentleman’s house. Before they set off, Mrs Beaman found several items of clothing which had been discarded by Miss Charlotte as being too awfully unfashionable, and a pair of shoes, soles worn as thin as paper, which she had thrown out herself. In this way, Mrs Beaman hoped to improve and enhance the new maid before introducing her to the daughter of the house.

  x

  ‘Now she’s cleaned up, let her take in afternoon tea!’ Blossom urged Mrs Beaman much later that afternoon.

  ‘Oh yes, do!’ Lizzie said, winking at Blossom. ‘Let’s see what Miss Charlotte has to say about her.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Mrs Beaman. She gazed doubtfully at Lily, who, although clean and freshly dressed, still did not look quite right for a gentleman’s house.

  There was something ungainly about her: her feet stuck out at angles, like a duck’s, her aimless expression and her dark auburn hair – despite being washed three times and having had a comb dragged through it – still a mess of strands and knots. The colour of Miss Charlotte’s cast-off gown did not suit her, either, its pastel green seeming to emphasise the shining hue of Lily’s face, which – due to the strong carbolic soap used at the baths – had unfortunately come up the colour of a pillar box. Nevertheless, on the ringing of the drawing-room bell for tea, Mrs Beaman equipped her with a white apron and a tray of silver tea things and led the way into the drawing room to introduce her to Miss Charlotte Unwin.

  Miss Charlotte was sixteen years old and, having always lived a life of luxury, comfort and plenty, had the glowing skin, bright eyes and abundance of thick golden hair to prove it. She also had a personal dressmaker, a wardrobe of the very latest gowns and every little frou-frou novelty to which a fashionable young lady in the year of 1861 might be entitled. She was very much looking forward to the following year when she would ‘come out’ in society and be presented to Queen Victoria, for then would follow a whole season of dances, hunt balls and lavish dinners at which (she felt sure) she would be the glittering centre of attention. Her mother had promised her a lady’s maid of her own for this
period and she was happily anticipating some smart young woman who would not only be capable of dressing her hair in ringlets and repairing a lace collar, but also know which tiara should be worn on which occasion.

  Sadly, Lily was not that young woman.

  ‘Miss Charlotte,’ said Mrs Beaman, not without a little well-concealed delight, ‘may I present Lily?’

  She indicated to Lily that she was to put the tea things down on the nearest table, but Lily was staring about with her mouth agape, her eyes swivelling around the room as she took in the windows, the walls, the floor and the furniture with gasps of pleasure and amazement. On the mantelpiece, she suddenly spotted a jug painted with the familiar bluebirds, and crashing the tea things down on the table, she hobbled painfully (Mrs Beaman’s shoes were too small) towards it.

  ‘This is like the teapot Mama had!’ she said. She excitedly scratched the flea bites along her arms. ‘Did you get it from Uncle’s?’

  Miss Charlotte stared at her with astonishment. It was as if, Mrs Beaman was to report later, she had witnessed a unicorn entering the drawing room to serve cucumber sandwiches.

  ‘Grace had to pawn our teapot – she got a shilling for it,’ Lily said, beaming at Miss Charlotte. She picked up the jug and, moving swiftly to prevent a possible catastrophe, Mrs Beaman rounded the sofa and took it from her. ‘Do you go to Uncle’s often?’ she asked Miss Charlotte.

  ‘Mrs Beaman, who is this person?’ Charlotte asked faintly.

  Mrs Beaman couldn’t reply for a while, for she was dodging around and about behind Lily, taking from her whatever she picked up and trying to move between her and the most delicate items. Finally, as Lily stopped and stroked the heavy velvet curtains as if they were the pelt of an animal, she managed to say, ‘Lily is new to the household, miss. She’s just been taken on by your father and mother.’

  ‘I can hardly believe it. What as?’

  ‘As, I believe, a lady’s maid.’

  ‘Who on earth for?’

  Mrs Beaman coughed delicately. ‘For yourself, Miss Charlotte.’

  Charlotte Unwin let out a little scream of horror which was heard by her mother and father, who had just arrived home. Striding into the parlour and quickly sizing up the situation, Mr Unwin told Lily to go back into the kitchen immediately. She did so, giving him a beaming smile and taking a spiced biscuit from the tray.

  Mr Unwin gestured for the cook to stay and, while Mrs Unwin was soothing Charlotte, reached into his inside pocket to pull out a ten-shilling note. ‘Mrs Beaman, I thank you in advance for doing your best in a difficult situation,’ he began.

  Mrs Beaman bobbed a curtsey, trying not to look at the value of the note but hoping for a pound.

  ‘The fact is, the new young person in question . . .’

  ‘Lily?’ Mrs Beaman asked. The note was the wrong colour for five pounds, she couldn’t help thinking.

  ‘Lily,’ Mr Unwin confirmed, ‘has been taken on by Mrs Unwin and myself as a charity case. Her sister will be working as a mute for us, and was anxious that Lily should be looked after, too, because she is rather . . . rather . . .’ At a loss how best to put it, he made a wavy motion with both hands about his head.

  ‘Quite, sir,’ said Mrs Beaman. Obvious, that was.

  ‘I’m afraid I assured her sister that Lily could be taught to be a maid, but you and I know, of course, that she would not make a very satisfactory one. She could, perhaps, clean boots or somesuch?’

  ‘Perhaps, sir,’ came the doubtful reply.

  ‘I’m sure you will do your best with her,’ Mr Unwin went on, unfolding the note, ‘and thank you for your understanding. There’s just one other thing: Mrs Unwin and I are very interested – in a charitable way – about this young person.’

  Mrs Beaman raised her eyebrows slightly. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We are anxious to know how it can happen that girls from good families fall on hard times. So that it might be prevented in future, you see.’ He waited for Mrs Beaman to nod and continued, ‘Perhaps if she mentions anything about her background, you wouldn’t mind passing it on to us.’

  Mrs Beaman tried to hide her surprise. ‘If you wish, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. And of course this matter must remain completely confidential between ourselves.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  The banknote was pressed into her palm at last and Mrs Beaman bobbed another curtsey and went back to the kitchen, frowning a little at its value. Only ten shillings! Well, as long as he kept them coming . . .

  x

  A whispered consultation between the three Unwins followed in the parlour. Mrs Unwin had been told the whole story and the likely amount of the inheritance (and was already planning to buy a seaside villa in newly fashionable Brighton), and now Charlotte was informed of the situation. Both were then told of the new plan to ‘adopt’ Lily.

  Mr Unwin had been rather fearful of Charlotte’s reaction, but she – eagerly anticipating the Season – readily undertook to try and persuade Lily that she’d been adopted some years previously, in return for a smartly painted gig. With this, and a competent lady’s maid of her own, she was quite sure that she would take London society by storm . . .

  x

  Chapter Fourteen

  The following day, by the round pond in Kensington Gardens, an extremely elegant woman, holding a small child by the hand, stopped to admire a baby in a smart new bassinette.

  ‘What a beautiful baby!’ she said. ‘A little cherub!’

  Mrs Robinson paused and smiled. ‘He is, isn’t he?’ she said. ‘I know one shouldn’t really praise one’s own, but really, my husband and I think he’s absolutely adorable.’

  The woman looked once more at the baby, and then at Mrs Robinson, as if comparing them. ‘Lovely features. And I think he has your eyes!’

  The new mother went slightly pink with pleasure. ‘Yes, they do say that.’

  The other woman picked up her own small child and held him aloft so that he could see into the bassinette. ‘See the baby, George! Such a pretty thing!’ Young George seemed more impressed with the boats on the pond, however, and the woman put him down again. ‘You have no nanny, I see.’

  Mrs Robinson shook her head. ‘Never! I wouldn’t let anyone else look after Baby. Baby is precious!’

  ‘Quite. I have three children – quite well spaced out in age – and I nursed each one myself.’ She smiled slightly. ‘To tell you the truth, I mostly did it because I was worried that they might come to prefer Nanny to me!’

  Mrs Robinson laughed.

  ‘And where does he get his colouring from?’ The woman looked once more into the bassinette. ‘I can see curls under that bonnet! Your husband has the auburn hair, does he?’

  Mrs Robinson started, as if she’d been asked an impertinent question. ‘Yes. Yes, he does!’ she said quite defiantly.

  The woman looked at her, wondering at what she’d said, and nodded very formally. ‘Then may I wish you good morning.’

  ‘Good morning,’ said Mrs Robinson. She was already regretting the tone she’d used with the woman, but people went on so much about appearances and whether Baby looked like her or Stanley, and really, it was none of their business. She knew what Stanley would say – that they didn’t mean anything and were only being friendly. She really must try to remember that and not get upset . . .

  x

  Chapter Fifteen

  Four weeks later, Grace, standing outside an imposing church in central London, shivered in her black crêpe gown and cloak. The weather was growing colder now and crêpe, although the most fashionable fabric for both the bereaved and the funeral mute, was not comfortable to wear, for it didn’t keep out the wind and, at the faintest hint of damp in the air, would attach itself clammily to one’s limbs.

  Grace and the girl she was partnered with, Jane, were positioned each side of the church porch, twin harbingers of doom in their black hoods and veiling, holding staffs with trailing ribbons. They had been booked by the bereaved
family to stand in front of the door maintaining expressions of poignant and awful grief for six hours, until the main funeral party arrived and the interment commenced, so had been there since seven o’clock that morning.

  It was to be a grand and lavish funeral. The family of Cedric Welland-Scropes, the dead man, owned a large mausoleum in the church grounds where up to twenty family members could be entombed, so there would be two ceremonies: one in the church and one at the corpse’s final resting place on the far side of the churchyard. A feather-bearer was to lead the procession of mourners from the deceased’s home to the church, the horses would have newly-dyed black plumes, a richly fringed velvet pall would cover the oak coffin in its glass carriage and there would be at least twelve funeral carriages behind this. For all those attending there would be gifts of black silk scarves, hatbands and gloves.

  Grace had tried several times to begin a conversation with her matching mute in order to make the time go more quickly, but Jane had lived and worked at the funeral parlour for ten years now, since a child of nine, and took her role extremely seriously. She had no difficulty in maintaining a tragic face at all times and sometimes actually managed to shed tears by convincing herself that she, personally, had suffered a death. Anxious and apologetic, she spoke little when off duty, and not at all when on, for Mrs Unwin had impressed upon her that a mute should be just that – mute – and she believed that what Mrs Unwin said was law. Grace, therefore, after trying to persuade her to speak, fell to silence and passed the time watching preparations for a pauper burial not thirty feet from where they were standing.

  St Jude’s was one of the few old churches in London to still have space for new bodies and here, in an unkempt and uncared-for part of the churchyard, two gravediggers were breaking up the earth in a rough space about ten feet across. As they dug, they came across a selection of human remains which had been lurking near the surface from previous burials: here a femur, there a collar bone and once an entire skull pulled from a great clod of earth. Unmoved by their macabre finds, they whistled as they dug, swore merrily at each other and exchanged witticisms. They could work as they pleased that morning, for, it being paupers from the workhouse to be buried, there were no relatives or friends of the deceased to be considered and no need for any attempt at piety.